Ministering Angels
by MissTempleton
Summary: A murder that may not be what it seems, and a manservant who may not be what he claims. Jack and Phryne each have their own mysteries to solve; as ever, it's unlikely they'll manage their challenges alone.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Phryne?"

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily. The rain continued its gentle percussion on the windows of 221B The Esplanade.

The Honourable Phryne Fisher was utterly absorbed in the book on her lap; her husband, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson, was less captivated by his (Hemingway's views on bullfighting being eloquent but too much resonant of the irrational death of which Jack's life had seen a surfeit) and had been observing her surreptitiously for the last twenty minutes or so; which meant that something was wrong.

Not, of course, that there was anything wrong with the view of Mrs Robinson. Quite the contrary; as he sat in his armchair by their hearth, head propped on his fist, he could readily have spent another hour drinking in the vision before him. It wasn't as though she'd made any particular effort for a dinner _à deux_ ; or at least, not beyond the usual effort she made to please herself in her appearance.

This evening, the soft grey velvet of her gown almost melted into the alabaster tones of her skin, and hung with the deceptive ease of exquisite tailoring to a point just below her knees. That meant that, with her feet tucked under her on the couch, the eye was naturally drawn up to her face; perfectly made up and framed by a fashionable bob of sleek black hair, his eyes could happily rest on it for the foreseeable future.

Normally, though, she would have noticed – and probably teased him, and asked for more physical proof of affection with an upturned gaze and an inviting laugh.

This time, she appeared utterly oblivious to the presence of a spy; and she hadn't turned a page in all the time he'd been watching.

She also appeared to be suffering from deafness. He tried again.

"Phryne? What's the matter?"

She looked up with a little start.

"What?"

He tipped his head meaningfully at her lap.

"You've stopped reading. Is Captain Johns' book not as captivating as your mother hoped?"

She looked back down at the book, as though seeing it for the first time, and held a finger in her place while turning back to admire the cover.

"No, it's super. This Biggles chap reminds me of someone." She grinned, and he relaxed a little. "A few people, actually."

"Then what's wrong? What were you thinking about?"

She frowned again. "Lunch."

He blinked at that.

"We've only just finished dinner, and you're already planning lunch?" He was used to her hearty appetite, but this was remarkable.

She gave a quick, preoccupied smile. "No, I mean lunch today."

"I see." He saw a little bit more, anyway. Today's lunch appointment had been with her Aunt Prudence. Something to do with a new charity Mrs Stanley had in mind.

(Because obviously, none of the existing charities quite hit the mark.)

He waited, now confident that the rest of the story would unfold; and resumed perusal of possibly the most pleasing profile in the Southern Hemisphere.

True to form, after a moment's silence, she muttered a single word.

"I'm sorry?" he asked enquiringly.

"Criminals" she said, a little more loudly. "Aunt P's decided she wants to help criminals."

Jack considered the idea. Prudence Stanley had always been a benefactor of many charities, but she'd always taken her niece's (and her niece's husband's) activities on sufferance. This was definitely a step out of the ordinary. And, as far as he could tell, unprompted. Good point, Robinson, he agreed.

"Why?" he asked the question uppermost in his mind.

"Jack, I haven't the slightest idea," she shrugged. "All I said was that she could leave that dreadful oil from the drawing room near her front gate and let nature (and the inspiration of the light-fingered community) take its course, but she practically bit my nose off and said I didn't understand."

"Does she have a particular criminal in mind?"

She paused, then looked up at him mouth opening slightly as a new speculation was entertained. "Now, there's a thought. I don't know. I couldn't rule it out, though. Oh!" she exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder. "Mr Butler, I'm sorry, have you been there long?"

"Not at all, Miss," her factotum responded politely from his position in the doorway. "The Inspector is wanted on the telephone."

The Inspector groaned inwardly. Miss Fisher was less subtle. "Oh, _no_. At this time of night?"

Neither of the gentlemen present had the heart to answer, but it wasn't long before her worst fears were realised.

"Sorry," Jack said briefly as he returned to the room and bent to kiss her goodbye. "It's a murder."

She caught his hand and squeezed it, untucking her feet as though in preparation for flight. "Shall I come along?" In all honesty, she'd far rather remain by the fireside, but it wouldn't be the same without him. And if by coming along, she could help speed his return, she'd cheerfully sacrifice an evening's repose.

"No," his rejection was softened with a half-smile. "It's open-and-shut – the culprit's in custody."

"Then why do they need you?" she tried not to make it sound like a whine, and failed.

"Collins just wants to check a couple of things," he replied easily, heading to the coat stand in the hallway. "I shouldn't be long, but don't wait up."

She stood and shook out the folds of her dress. "Oh, don't you worry," she said, glancing at him under her lashes. "I'll go up … but I'll wait. I might even …" she turned to pick up _Biggles of 266_ "take a dashing pilot with me for company."

"I always worried I'd lose you to a younger man," he deadpanned, and set his hat at a rakish angle, touching the brim with a suave salute before turning to the door. That meant he missed the laughing smile that answered his words – which was just as well.

If he'd seen it, she was fairly confident he wouldn't have left after all; and having one responsible member of society in the household (staff notwithstanding) was probably a good idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

One of the benefits of his new seniority, to which Jack was still becoming accustomed, was that if his presence was required at a crime scene, a car would arrive to Make It So. He was thus calm and relaxed as he arrived at the house in South Yarra, where his (almost as newly promoted) Sergeant Collins was awaiting him.

"Sir."

"Collins," Jack nodded, and as they walked together along the path to the front door, "why am I here?"

A few years ago, Collins would have blushed, hesitated and prevaricated. But then – Jack reflected – a few years ago, Collins wouldn't have been in charge of the crime scene and therefore responsible for calling him in.

"Because I don't think it's going to be straightforward, sir," said Hugh Collins in low tones to match Jack's own, "and I thought you'd want to be in at the beginning, if I'm right." He bit his lip. "And I'd rather you carpet me for wasting your time than for getting the wrong answer."

Jack stopped short, a couple of yards away from the front door of the house and out of the glare of the light. "What are you not telling me, Collins?"

With those few words, his strong, capable sergeant became the nervous constable, and Jack resisted the urge to vent his frustration.

"Well … it's just that …"

Enough was enough. Rather than listen to an apologia, Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away from the building.

"Sir!"

He stopped and waited for Collins to catch up. He deliberately waited for the younger man to stop, and walk ahead of him to turn and face the light of the house; Jack was in darkness, and all the more menacing for it.

"Collins, I trust your judgement, which is why I'm here. What I know so far is that you've got a murder suspect in custody and he's confessed. If you think there's a reason the arrest won't stand up, I don't want to hear why you're a bit worried about the circumstances or whether Mrs Collins might not approve. Give me the facts, or if you'd rather, give me your badge."

Jack bit his tongue a little after the last part, but he had invested years in getting the detective to emerge from the chrysalis which was Hugh Collins, and his instinct told him that tonight might be a make-or-break moment. For Collins to spot the flaw in a crime, and have the confidence to call out his senior officer on a hunch was unprecedented; the chance was unlikely to appear again.

The shock tactics worked. Collins' brow furrowed briefly in disbelief at the threat, then pursed his lips on an inward breath. Decision made, he spoke again.

"I don't think there's any doubt he killed the man. I just don't think it's murder. I think he struck him, but it might not have been that blow that killed him."

"Why not?"

"It was dark. He doesn't know where the blow landed; and the head injury doesn't match the weapon."

Jack nodded. "The weapon being …?"

"Crowbar, sir."

As they spoke, the door opened and a stretcher was borne out, a covered body laid on top of it.

"Hold on," Jack said to the stretcher-bearers, and they stopped obediently. "Show me, Collins."

The sergeant stepped forward and uncovered the head, then with his free hand indicated, by the light shining out from the hallway of the house, the darkened area of the temple where the fatal blow had been struck. Jack leaned in for a closer look, then nodded dismissal, allowing the stretcher-party to move on.

"The Coroner will have a view on that, if I know her. Right, let's have a look at the scene," he said briefly, gesturing for Hugh Collins to lead the way.

'The scene' had just been vacated by the Coroner's team, for which Jack was heartily thankful. There were times when he didn't mind an audience (especially the female sort with a sleek black bob and a quizzical smile) but he'd always found that his ability to build the picture of a crime in his head was improved by a lack of human interference. Collins was well aware of the fact, and hovered in the doorway.

The room itself was minimally decorated – one could almost say, Spartan. There was a bookcase, but its contents consisted solely of texts which were either encyclopedic or ecclesiastical; the needs of mind and soul were, apparently, entirely served either by fact or faith. Next to the bookcase was a threadbare armchair, which had probably once been a fetching shade of … mushroom. Its partner was less worn, but equally faded.

The two chairs flanked a small fireplace, but instead of a picture above it to enliven the room, or a mirror to make it seem larger, there was only a crucifix hanging in pride of place.

Initial survey completed, Jack walked further into the room, looked at the cross more closely, and then back at his sergeant.

"Catholic household?" he enquired.

"No sir – Anglican," explained Collins hastily. "Deceased was vicar of the local church."

"I'd not have guessed," remarked the Inspector. "He looked more like a pugilist than a preacher."

Collins nodded enthusiastically. "Just what I thought, sir. I wasn't sure how such a puny bloke as Lacey would have been able to land a blow on Hackle, let alone kill him."

Jack murmured agreement, and moved on to study more closely the area of floor on which was indicated the position of the body. Crouching to peer under the furniture, he was able to confirm only that Mr Hackle had had an excellent cleaning lady.

With a last glance at the matching, tidily-stored fire irons, the red marble hearth, and the unattractive but apparently blameless occasional table lying on its side by the armchair, he shook his head and led the way back to the door.

"The usual checks, Collins – look for signs of theft and get details of next of kin. Lacey can wait until the morning."

Hugh Collins smiled slightly. "He's certainly not going anywhere apart from City South tonight, sir."

But the words were uttered to empty air. The Detective Chief Inspector had a rookie pilot to usurp, and the night wasn't getting any younger.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Bigglesworth having been laid safely to rest for the time being, 221B The Esplanade, St Kilda was a haven of calm for enough of what remained of the night for the Inspector to be able to depart at a respectable (i.e. sufficiently early for him to be able to look down his nose at the men arriving at the station for the morning shift) hour the following day.

When the lady of the house descended the stairs some considerable time later, though, she found a scene of mayhem in the kitchen.

Mr Butler was wearing an apron; as was Lin Soo, Phryne's maid. Despite this precaution, both were liberally strewn with flour, and Mr B was even sporting a rather endearing dab of white on the tip of his nose.

The cause was not hard to find: standing on one of the chairs was a child whose apron completely enveloped her from chin to toe. She was, however, wearing flour in her hair, and greeted Phryne with an enthusiastic wave which scattered baking goods far and wide.

"'Lo, Mumma!" she cried happily. "We've been making _pancakes_!"

Elizabeth Jane Robinson was just shy of three years old, but that was the only thing of which she could be accused of being shy. Born with her mother's boundless confidence, she generally went through her days with the bounciness of Tigger and the cuddliness of Pooh. Even Soo was incapable of maintaining her inscrutable front when faced with Elizabeth's confiding nature. Once, Elizabeth had whispered to Soo, girl-to-girl, that Mr Butler must be a very _nice_ boyfriend. Soo raised an eyebrow, and agreed that he was very nice indeed.

Phryne grinned at the adults in the room, and asked whether they could spare their kitchen assistant for a while. It was testament to the tiny hoyden's charm that they hesitated visibly before giving consent.

"Your Great Aunt Prudence has bought something she thinks you might be interested to see," she told the child. "Shall we go and find out what it is?"

This plan met with approval, and the apron carefully removed. The black bob that so resembled her mother's was briskly brushed, with a towel placed over the child's shoulders to catch most of the flour, and she was pronounced Fit To Be Seen.

Elizabeth _adored_ driving with her mother. The Hispano-Suiza was shiny and the leather of the seats smelled delicious. Also, the speed at which they usually travelled made her squeal.

There was, however, a slight mishap when a tram obtusely refused to give way, and Phryne had to stand on the brakes, which squealed even more loudly than Elizabeth.

"Ow," remarked a cheerful voice from the footwell. Elizabeth scrambled back on to the bench seat beside her mother, with more enthusiasm than decorum, rubbing her head pensively.

"I banged my head, Mumma," she observed. Phryne observed it too, and thanked her stars the Inspector hadn't been present. A quick survey of the vehicle didn't reveal any obvious solutions to the problem of her protecting her diminutive passenger, though, so she resigned herself to driving at funereal pace for the rest of the journey. Apart from a mild enquiry from the toddler as to whether the car was going slowly because it was broken, Mumma, there were no more mishaps.

The door of Aunt Prudence's palatial home was opened by the butler, Mitton. While Elizabeth danced inside, Phryne pulled him aside for a moment, explaining the problem of restraining child passengers in racing vehicles.

"I will see what I can do, Madam," he promised. As he turned away, she was struck by the gaunt set of his face, and realised that he'd been losing some weight. She reached impulsively to grasp his arm.

"Mitton, is everything all right?" she asked.

He looked back at her absently for a moment, but then appeared to collect himself.

"Yes, very well, thank you, ma'am" he said politely. "You will find Mrs Stanley in the drawing room."

Feeling herself dismissed, and refusing to interpret his words as a snub - she liked Mitton, who had restored sorely-missed harmony to her Aunt P's household - she merely nodded and followed Elizabeth.

Who was bouncing up and down in front of her Great-Aunt Prudence, much to G-A P's delight.

(It was _very_ hard to be annoyed with Elizabeth).

"Whatisitwhatisitwhatisit?!" she was asking. "Is it here? Can I look at it?"

Prudence rose majestically to her feet, and took the tot's hand.

"It is not in this room, but it is here at my house," she said firmly. "I think we should go and look around, don't you?"

At 'not in this room', though, she was already being towed to the doorway by her energetic great-niece. Phryne followed in amusement, and when they reached the hallway and Aunt P suggested they make for the back of the house, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

When they started heading for the stables, they narrowed even further.

"Hush, now," cautioned Prudence. "We don't want to frighten it."

" _Frighten what, Aunty Pru_?" whispered Elizabeth, eyes like saucers.

But Mrs Stanley only placed a stern finger to her lips, before drawing open the door to the stable.

Elizabeth tiptoed theatrically inside, and gazed around, but could see nothing. Mystified, she turned back to look at her great-aunt; but was then distracted by a scuffling sound from the other end of the row of stalls. Running lightly down the stable, she stopped at the furthest stall, and tried vainly to reach the bolt on its door.

Before the child had the chance to cast her glance around for something to let her complete the exercise at some unattended point in the future, Phryne hurried to pull the latch herself, and cautiously opened the door.

A pair of liquid brown eyes turned to face the new arrivals, at roughly the height of the toddler's head.

Elizabeth gasped.

Phryne groaned inwardly.

Prudence beamed.

"A _pony_!" whispered Elizabeth incredulously.

"Aunt Prudence?" There was no mistaking the stern tone from the child's mother; or the defensive one from her great aunt.

"The poor animal was going to be shipped to a dealer in Ballarat, Phryne," she explained in a hasty undertone. "I thought it would be just the thing to get Elizabeth started …" her voice failed for a moment. Few people knew so well how Phryne hated to have her hand forced.

"And how, pray, is the child to be taught to ride? I assume that's your plan?" asked Phryne acidly, watching with jaundiced eye as Elizabeth lovingly stroked the placid animal's velvety nose.

"I was hoping to be allowed that pleasure," said a voice from behind them. The two women swung round to see Mitton standing at the doorway to the stables. As he spoke, he was shedding his coat; hanging it on a hook by the entrance, he walked past them into the stall, rolling up his sleeves. Without looking to either of the women for permission, he hefted a tiny saddle and rug from the stable wall and settled it on the pony's back, swiftly tightening and testing the girth.

"Miss Elizabeth, would you be good enough to lead Nutmeg to the mounting-block?" he asked politely, offering the pony's leading-rein to the tot.

Elizabeth, possibly for the first time in her waking life, was utterly silenced and accepted her charge. The little procession headed out of the stable, passing Phryne, whose smile was twisted but undeniably present. She turned to look at her aunt, and was shocked to find the older woman's eyes filled with tears.

"Aunt P? What's wrong?"

Recalled to her company, Mrs Stanley glared up at her niece before stumping back to the house, apparently willing to miss the sight of Elizabeth's first pony ride. Phryne glanced back, saw the tot comfortably settled in the saddle under the tutelage of Mitton, and followed her aunt.

Prudence was leaning against the wall just inside the door, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What …?" Phryne rushed to take Prudence's hand in both of hers.

"Oh, Phryne," Prudence growled, all anger and frustration. "I simply _can't bear it_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Having had something of a shock the previous evening – he hadn't really believed the Inspector wanted his badge, but to be offered the chance to give it up had rather created a bottomless pit in Hugh Collins' stomach – the sergeant was understandably diffident when he attended his appointment with the Coroner the following morning. The Inspector was, on the whole, cheerful; and beyond double checking whether the crowbar had been used to gain access to the property (it had), a detail he admitted he should have checked the previous evening, he was content to be driven to the Morgue in silence.

(He'd had some of the first round of pancakes, and while misshapen, they were made with a loving hand that he appreciated very much, no matter that it was very small and had forced him to go and change his tie after it came into contact during the waitressing process. The offender smiled broadly, said Sorry, Daddy, and the deed was instantly forgiven).

The child's godmother was presiding over the corpse, and hadn't started the day with pancakes, which might have accounted for her ill humour.

"If a crowbar did this, I'm going to marry His Holiness the Pope," announced Mac.

"April's a lovely time for a wedding," remarked Jack chirpily, and earned a withering look from one of Melbourne's most confirmed atheist spinsters.

"On the assumption that you want my help …" she began pointedly. He, equally pointedly, pursed his lips and put on his most attentive expression.

At the same time, Hugh Collins looked worriedly from the Inspector to the Coroner.

"I'm sorry. It was my idea. I probably made a mistake …"

Mac intercepted a black look from Jack and relented. She, too, had seen Hugh's potential.

"You didn't," she assured him. "In a nutshell, the crowbar would either have made a stabbing wound, like a knife; or a deep, blunt bruise from the curved side. What you wouldn't get is the blow that killed this man: not two points, as on the crowbar cleft, but one."

She lifted the sheet from the corpse's head, and pointed to the temple.

"This is what killed him. This, single blow."

There was a silence while the policemen absorbed that information. Collins was the first to speak.

"Then what …?"

He wasn't allowed to finish his sentence. Nodding approvingly, Mac moved to the other side of the cadaver and lifted it slightly, tipping the head to the other side.

"What happened to the blow the accused struck? Just this."

There was a long bruise at the base of the neck, running from the Adam's apple to just under the ear.

"Debilitating? Definitely. Deadly? Afraid not."

"Then …" Jack was forming the words as he formed the thought. "Why did Lacey insist he'd killed him?"

"Can't help you with that, Inspector," Mac shrugged, already covering up the corpse again and turning to wash her hands.

Feeling dismissed, Jack turned to his sergeant. "Let's have that chat with Lacey."

In the car on the way back to the station, a question occurred to Jack.

"How did you catch him so quickly?"

Collins executed a neat turn before answering.

"He hadn't actually tried to escape, sir. That was part of the reason I wasn't happy with the arrest."

"Oh? Who reported it, then?"

"Next door neighbour." Collins pulled up outside City South and dragged up the handbrake, but didn't move from his seat, so the Inspector stayed put too. "He came home from work and saw the front door wide open. It wasn't like the vicar to be so careless, so he wandered up the path and shouted to see if anyone was home. Then he saw Lacey sitting on the floor in the hallway, with the crowbar in his hand, and he realised the door had been forced. He couldn't get a response out of Lacey, so he went into the parlour, switched on the light – and went to the telephone."

"Was Lacey violent?"

"Not with the witness, or with us, sir. Answered everything we asked him, nice as pie."

"A polite murderer?" mused Jack. He'd known a few of those. Murdoch Foyle was a particularly memorable example. "All right, let's see if we can find out why he didn't run."

He stepped out of the car, and almost regretted doing so. The only mitigating factor was that the car which nearly took off his big toe was red, shiny, sounded fabulous in its final rev, and was driven by the Hon Phryne Fisher.

"Hello, Jack," she said crisply. "A word, please."

"Phryne," he said courteously, walking round to open her door for her. "I _am_ a little busy. With the whole, you know, being a policeman thing."

"I'm sure you are, and this won't take a moment," she replied. She looked firmly at Hugh Collins, who took the hint and preceded them both into the station, leaving Mr & Mrs Robinson to have an intimate chat on the pavement.

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets, inclined his head and waited.

"It's Aunt Prudence," said Phryne quietly. "She's in love, and this time it's serious."

Jack raised a hand to his forehead, tipping his hat back to massage his eyes in an effort to dispel disbelief.

"Phryne, this really needs to wait."

"No, Jack, it doesn't. She's in love with a former criminal, and he's about to up and leave her."

He blinked. "But if he's going, isn't that a good thing?"

"No, it's a very bad thing. He needs to stay."

He tried to turn and start walking into the station, but she grabbed his arm.

"Jack, you don't understand."

He gave up, and turned back raising both hands resignedly. "All right, so I don't understand. Who is the low-down who's managed to pull the wool over Prudence's eyes this time, and why haven't we to be delighted that he's leaving?"

"Because she needs him, and he needs her, and it's Mitton."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

There had been some major turning points in Jack's life. The most jolting handbrake-turn had been the time when he'd spent an hour with no internal organs whatsoever, as far as he could tell, putting down the telephone and driving to a car wreck that he'd thought was going to give him the last sucker-punch life could reasonably offer before allowing him quietly to dissolve into some still-to-be-established oblivion. That was the only natural conclusion to the loss of Miss Fisher when he'd been building at his own steady pace towards a decorous declaration, after being tediously informed by Life's dull, grey, receptionist that no, there wouldn't be children, no, his friends mostly wouldn't survive the Great War, no, he wouldn't be able to argue his fellow officers back into jobs because a Strike was a Strike, no, his wife (and her family) wouldn't be reliable or resilient in the face of moral challenge.

Phryne hadn't just been a silver siren. She'd been a beacon, and there had been a space that he still didn't care to remember when he'd thought she was taken from him, when he'd seriously contemplated giving up.

He'd not even told Phryne about it. Wasn't sure he ever would – why would he tarnish her gold with such sulphur?

It meant he knew what he was talking about when he asked her, "Has he tried telling her about it?"

He was rewarded by seeing Miss Fisher silenced, and would treasure the moment for years to come. Her position, one hand resting on the wheel arch of the Hispano, the other on her hip. Her head thrust forward accusingly, and her mouth already forming the response to what she had expected to be ridicule.

He allowed himself a moment's triumph as he watched her mouth slowly close; then turn up a little as she started a discussion instead of the argument she'd been gearing up for.

"He has. That's part of the trouble. She teased him until he told her why he wouldn't declare himself."

That in itself was a story. Prudence Stanley, _flirting_? His mind boggled at the thought.

"And what did he say?"

She shrugged. "Only that someone of her station in life couldn't conceivably ally herself with a criminal; so he must _regretfully_ " at this, Phryne's frustration was given full rein, "decline to speak further on the subject, and wanted her to consider accepting his resignation."

Jack mused, and shook his head. "Either he's playing a deep game, or he's a decent sort."

She met his eye. "Jack, we've both met him. He's straight as a die, my life on it."

He tipped his head. "I sincerely hope it won't come to that, but the point's taken. I agree. What was the crime?"

"He wouldn't say. That's where you come in," she warmed to the theme, and to the man; there was definitely a decorous degree of space between two consenting adults, and it was notably absent. The blame was partly the Inspector's because he didn't make the least effort to move away.

[At this juncture, records should note that Sergeant Collins came back to the door of the station to see what had happened to the Detective Chief Inspector and, having seen, decided that Miss Fisher happening to anyone was a process best viewed either a) from a distance or b) not at all, and selected option b).]

"I want you to find out what he went to jail for. I have two leads. One: he started working for Aunt P three months ago, so if he was in jail, it could have been quite shortly before then. Two, and more interestingly, Mary Cooper provided his reference; and when I tried to talk to her about it once, she was the soul of reticence."

Phryne leaned back, folded her arms and looked at him expectantly.

"Phryne …"

She looked at him a bit more.

"Mary Cooper is Bill Cooper's wife."

She continued to look. Not even an eyebrow flinched.

"You're telling me to go and talk to the Chief Commissioner's wife about an ex-con she recommended to be your aunt's butler."

She continued to look. He looked back.

Stalemate.

He would, in future, regard it as a defining moment in their marriage that she folded first.

"Oh, for heavens' sake. All right. I'll speak to Mary. But will you check the records?"

He assented; and as her reward, did so at such close quarters that a uniformed nanny who happened to be passing with a pram in front and a small child behind, tutted severely.

Miss Fisher completely failed to blush, and re-entered the Hispano with such flair that Coco Chanel would have reached instinctively for her sketchbook.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Lacey was simple.

Jack realised quite quickly that this was going to make the questioning process very, very complicated.

"So why were you there?" he persisted.

"Where was I?" the man looked confused.

"Mr Hackle's house."

"Who?"

"The vicar."

"Oh!" Lacey exclaimed. "Why didn't you say?"

"So, why were you there?"

"Where?"

"Oh, good God."

Jack walked swiftly out of the interview room before he was tempted to assault a key suspect. Hugh Collins followed him.

"This is impossible, Collins."

The sergeant pursed his lips. "Can I try something, sir?"

Jack shrugged. "By all means, if you think you can help. What's the plan?"

"Well …" Hugh thought for a moment. "I know we're supposed to ask open questions, but maybe if we pick some closed ones, we might get somewhere?"

Jack considered, and nodded slowly. "You might be right. It can't hurt."

They returned to the interview room, and this time Jack gestured for Hugh to take the seat opposite Lacey, who looked up at them both with mild interest.

"Mr Lacey," began Hugh. "You were in Mr Hackle's house. The vicar. Is that right?"

"Yer," agreed the man.

"Did you get in through the front door?"

"Yer."

"Did you have to break it open?"

"Yer."

"Did you use your crowbar to break it open?"

"Yer."

Jack leaned back against the wall with a sense of relief. As long as Hugh kept this up, they'd at least start to build a picture of what happened. He took out his own notebook and tried to remember when the last time was he'd had to use it.

"Were you on your own?"

"Nah."

At this, Hugh hesitated and glanced up at Jack, who was equally startled.

"You mean, there was someone else there? Apart from Mr Hackle?"

"Yer," Lacey nodded sagely. "Lew."

Remaining as outwardly calm as possible, Hugh persisted. "Is Lew a friend of yours?"

"Yer. Me mate."

"Did Lew hit the vicar?"

"Nah. Jus' me," said Lacey proudly.

"You hit the vicar."

"Yer."

"Did you hit him with the crowbar?"

"Yer."

"Did you hit him on the head?" Hugh tested.

Lacey paused, brown furrowed. "Dunno." As expected. It was dark.

"Did Lew see you hit the vicar?"

"Nah," Lacey shook his head sorrowfully. "Legged it."

"Lew ran away?"

"Yer. Bastard," said Lacey, without inflexion.

"Do you know where Lew is now?"

"Nah."

Hugh looked up at Jack, who pushed himself away from the wall. "Thank you, Mr Lacey, you've been most helpful. Sergeant, please return Mr Lacey to the cells. He might need a cup of tea after all that talking."

"She'll be apples!" agreed Lacey, perking up visibly.

Collins got to his feet, and opened the door. "How many sugars, Mr Lacey?"

"How many you got?"

When the sergeant returned from the cells, Jack was sitting in his office. "In here, Collins."

Hugh came in and closed the door.

Jack looked up. "That was well done, Collins. Do we have a home address for Lacey? I think that would be the first place to start looking for this Lew bloke."

Hugh coloured slightly. "Thank you, sir, and yes – or at least, he's been staying in a hostel, so we can go and ask them."

"A hostel? They surely don't give out crowbars at those places?"

"Well, no sir." Hugh pulled out his notebook. "Lacey said the crowbar was new. He only bought it yesterday."

"Why?"

Hugh checked his notebook again. "Because … because he didn't have anything to eat, sir."

Hugh nodded and snapped his notebook closed. Jack sighed.

"Collins, much as I sympathise with every one of the people in this town who go to bed hungry at night, Lacey didn't strike me as the kind who would go to the hardware store for a snack. If he was hungry, surely he would take the money to a pie cart?"

"Oh." Poor Collins, who'd been feeling so pleased with his breakthrough, was crestfallen.

Jack relented. "Get down to the hostel and start asking around for this Lew character. We've only got Lacey's highly unreliable word for it that he legged it – if he doubled back, he could be our murderer." He reached for the telephone. "I'm going to be checking the prison release lists. Miss Fisher has a bee in her bonnet, and I've been stung."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Mr Butler appeared at the parlour door with an elegant lady in tow.

"Mrs Cooper, ma'am," he announced.

Phryne rose to her feet, and went to greet her guest. "Mary, how lovely to see you. It was good of you to come."

"It was good of you to invite me, Phryne," the lady replied, taking the indicated chair and smiling her thanks as Mr B proffered a glass of sherry before effacing himself. "Was there something in particular you wanted to see me about? Not that there needs to be – I often wish we saw more of you, Bill and I."

Phryne privately thought that the Chief Commissioner would be of the view that he saw quite enough of Miss Fisher, thank you very much, but forbore to say so. "As a matter of fact, there was something; and I think it may be a little awkward, so I need to start by asking you to forgive me."

"Oh?" Intrigued, Mary Cooper sat forward a little in her chair.

"Yes … you see," said Phryne hesitantly, "it's about Richard Mitton." She stopped, and looked for her guest's reaction.

"Ah," said Mary, sitting back again and placing her sherry glass with exaggerated care on the occasional table beside her. "What about him?"

"I … understand he spent some time in prison," said Phryne.

"I'm afraid I have to ask what business it is of yours whether he did or not, Phryne," said Mary with an unaccustomed chill in her tone.

Phryne shrugged languidly. "None whatsoever; but it is very much the business of my Aunt Prudence, in whose service – and it would appear, also her heart – he is now residing." She sat forward intently. "And I am protective of Aunt Prudence, Mary. If there is something she needs to know, it is important that she is told. I believe he is now threatening to leave, because of his criminal record. I don't think that is a decision that he is to be allowed to make unilaterally."

Mary pursed her lips in silence for a few moments, reaching again to take a thoughtful sip from her glass. Then, apparently reaching a decision, she looked up at Phryne.

"In that case, you should ring for Tobias as well."

Phryne's eyes widened. "Mr Butler? I didn't know you knew him?"

"Oh yes," she said calmly. "This is a story of school friends, Phryne; and he knows as much, or even more of it, than I do."

Phryne was already on her feet to ring the bell.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Come in, Mr Butler," she said. "And close the door, please."

He cast a quick glance at Mary, who nodded, and turned to do as he was bid.

"I'll begin, and Tobias can fill in the parts I don't know," said the older woman. "Tobias, you might as well sit down."

Phryne looked at her manservant, but before he'd even opened his mouth to respond, she spoke for him. "You might as well save your breath for your story, Mary – Mr B is more comfortable standing." She then smiled a little. "You could assume the position of At Ease, though, Mr B."

He did indeed relax his stance a little, but did not return her smile. Both their heads turned to Mary Cooper.

"I knew Delia long before I met Richard." At Phryne's furrowed brow, she explained further. "Delia was Richard's wife. She and I went to school together."

"His _wife_?" interjected Phryne.

"This will be quicker if you don't interrupt, Phryne dear," remarked Mary drily. "Yes, Richard and Delia were married for almost five years before she died."

Now that she was engrossed in the story, Mary's eyes were less focussed; the images were in her mind, not the world around her.

"They were tremendously happy. Tried for a baby, though never to any success."

Phryne's mind suddenly leapt to an image of Jack, after the Ballarat Train murder. _We were never blessed_. At the time, she'd dismissed the notion and moved on; now, she and he were very much blessed and she could hear the bitterness hidden in his admission all those years ago.

"Then she became ill. Losing weight. Vomiting. Constant pain in her stomach. Eventually, Richard made her go to the doctor, and they … they found out it was cancer."

Mary's eyes were a little filmy now, and at the memory of her friend's fate, she had begun to stumble over her words. Mr Butler took up the tale.

"They had never had a great deal of money, but they got by. It meant, though, that Richard – he was _my_ school friend – had to spend more and more time caring for her, and eventually he lost his job at the bank. He was constantly being late for work, and trying to rush back to St Albans to persuade her to eat something at lunchtime …"

"St Albans?" said Phryne sharply. "Does this have anything to do with Bunbury?"

"That comes later, Miss," he apologised. "Richard lost his job, and the money ran out quite quickly. She needed a lot of pain relief, and the medicines were expensive."

"I wished I'd known," uttered Mary sadly, handkerchief dabbing her eyes. "Delia and I hadn't lost touch exactly, but we'd dwindled to Christmas cards and the odd letter. I could have helped!"

"You _did_ help, and in such an important way, ma'am," insisted Tobias gently, before continuing his tale. "Richard started stealing food. Anything, really, to make sure that the money was there for the morphine. By the time Delia died, though, there was no money left."

He, too, was now struggling. "There wasn't even enough for a proper funeral. And the bank saw him as a bad risk, and wouldn't lend him the funds. So Richard became desperate, and took his service revolver to the bank, and tried to hold it up, to get enough money to bury his wife."

"I was in the bank that day. I didn't recognise him at first – he'd lost so much weight, and the beard had changed his face a great deal – but when he was arrested, he stopped trying to change his voice, and I heard the man I'd last remembered shouting at me to chuck him the ball on the football field."

Mr B smiled a little. "The gun wasn't loaded, of course; not the slightest chance of that. In the end, that probably saved him from hanging. But as it was, Mary had the devil of a job getting permission for him to attend the funeral – which she funded herself."

"I was so glad you telephoned me, Tobias," she assured him, drinking down the rest of her sherry in a single gulp. He immediately moved to refill the glass, while Phryne looked, in stunned silence, from one of them to the other.

"He was released after five years in the end," finished Mr B. "There was no chance of his getting his job back at the bank, but I helped him learn the skills of butlering – my Bunbury trips, Miss," he smiled, "and then Mary gave him the reference to Mrs Stanley, and 'Bunbury' could be allowed to die."

Phryne noted that, during the course of the conversation, Mrs Cooper had become Mary; but theirs was clearly a friendship forged on the strongest of bonds, and she could see no reason to mention it.

She looked from one of them to the other, and then got up to go to the telephone.

"Jack? It's me. You can stop looking at prison records. It turns out we've been harbouring ministering angels closer to home than we could possibly have imagined."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Jack placed the receiver back in its cradle with a sigh of relief. Goodness only knew what Miss Fisher would do with Mitton's story, now that she was a party to it; but at least he was free to get on with the day job; which didn't waste time in tapping on his door, in the form of Sergeant Collins.

"Sir?"

"Come in, Collins. Any joy?"

Hugh strode decisively into the centre of the office, and equally decisively said, "No, sir. Sorry, sir."

He opened his notebook, the very image of the hard-working policeman. "I've established that Lew is one Lewis Allbright, and that he and Lacey have been staying at the hostel off and on for about three years now. I have a photograph that has them both in it," he broke off to display the evidence, "but Allbright hasn't been seen since the day before yesterday."

"They couldn't even suggest any places that he goes to? Habitually?"

Hugh shook his head. "No, sir. It's a busy place, and the volunteers try not to be too intrusive about the residents' personal lives, unless they choose to ask for help."

Jack sighed, and tried hard to bury the wish for a decorous lady detective to perch on the corner of his desk and tell him what to do next. Leaning both elbows on his desk, and steepling his hands to his temples, he was transfixed by images of Phryne in all her chameleon personae; glittering in ball dress, businesslike in black, scruffy in ill-fitting shorts, grubby shirt, wig and cap …

"Thank you, Collins, I have a call to make."

Correctly divining that the call wasn't one about which notes would be taken, Hugh made himself scarce even as Jack was lifting the receiver.

"Mr Butler? Is Miss Fisher available? I'll wait."

He settled back in his chair, and was rewarded only a few minutes later by a rather gruff voice on the other end of the line.

"Jack?"

"Phryne, are you all right? You sound upset."

"Of _course_ I'm upset, you ridiculous man," she muttered. "I'm attempting to discuss with Mary Cooper how to get Mitton to agree to marry Aunt Prudence, when the idiot seems to think going to jail for trying to give his wife a proper funeral rules him out of the running. Hang on."

There was a clunk as she put down the receiver, and the unedifying evidence of a runny nose being enthusiastically blown.

"Right, what is it?"

He decided to forgive the peremptory nature of the demand. "I was hoping you could advise me on something, after your spell with the mendicants. If you were perennially short of cash, and wanted something to eat, is there anywhere you could go? A soup kitchen or some such?"

"Two or three soup kitchens," she replied briefly, "but they're all nosey, and want you to sign up to Christian belief in exchange for avoiding starvation, which is regarded by most as a bit unsporting."

"Anywhere else?"

"Oh, certainly. The pie shop in Little Lon. In the front door, you get pretty pies that cost a pretty penny. Round the back, you get the spoiled stock for a lot less."

"But they're experts," he objected. "Surely there can't be that much spoiled stock."

"There's been rather a lot of spoiled stock since I found out about them, Jack," she remarked bluntly.

Of course there was. He should have guessed. Moving swiftly on from his wife's incorrigible urge to look after the underdog, he asked for narrowed-down co-ordinates.

"Jack, you're not going to start arresting people for begging, are you?" she asked anxiously. "I wouldn't have told you if I thought you would."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he assured her quietly. "I'm just looking for a murder suspect, and I think he's probably hungry."

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. "Hungry people do desperate things, Jack. It doesn't mean they're criminals."

"It doesn't," he agreed. "But this particular one seems to have shelled out quite a lot of money to give his friend a potential murder weapon, and then ran away. At the very least, I want to have a chat."

With this she had to be grudgingly content, and he rang off on the assurance that he wouldn't do anything she wouldn't like.

(He also offered to do something she liked very much when he got home, which made it more difficult to put down the telephone, but they were both grinning broadly again when they did. Still having fun, after all).


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jack's next act was to call Sergeant Collins into his office, and tell him to go home.

Collins was first startled, then alarmed. He searched his conscience, but while he hadn't necessarily covered himself with glory in the interviews at the hostel, he hadn't been utterly disgraceful, had he?

"B-but, sir?" he stammered, trying to find the words for an apology he didn't know he had to make.

The Inspector grinned. "It's all right, Collins. I just want you to change out of uniform into something a little less conspicuous in which to hang around outside a pie shop. Find one of the junior constables to take with you, and give him the same instructions." He explained rapidly, and Collins' demeanour went from worried to almost gleeful. This was proper detective work!

Two hours later, Collins found himself longing for a desk job. One with people to talk to. Dull, boring records to read. A kettle that could be placed on the gas burner at regular intervals for light entertainment (and tea).

He and Constable Perkins had been watching the lane around the pie shop's back door and the boredom was indescribable. He'd started by thinking of possible birthday presents for Dottie (probably not including a pie, he guessed correctly). Then he started counting up the number of days he'd been a sergeant (well into three figures). Periodically, he watched beggars going to the back door of the pie shop, and emerging with their hands – and mouths – full. That was good, he supposed. None of them looked as though they were accustomed to square meals.

When a firm finger tapped on his shoulder, he jumped, and groaned inwardly.

"Collins," said the low voice.

"Sir," he replied, rather too loudly; and his shame at being caught napping was increased fivefold when the Inspector raised a finger to his lips.

"Just a thought, Collins. In the field, call me Robinson, or even call me Jack. Call me Aunt Myrtle if the situation demands. But don't call me sir," he suggested quietly.

Hugh closed his eyes in resignation. He was _never_ going to make Detective.

"Yes s…ssss" he replied.

All of the offered nomenclature options were disrespectful, and Dot would be horrified.

"No sign?" continued the Inspector, gaze switching to the pie shop.

"Not yet sir … oh!"

The last was more of a sharp intake of breath, and a glance across the street showed that Perkins had also spotted the quarry.

Fortunately, Jack was turned three-quarters away from the shop, meaning that Hugh, likewise, was not facing it directly. The two therefore appeared to be in the kind of earnest conversation that a right-minded person would sensibly pretend not to have seen, and the weasel-like individual who slipped in through the back door.

"That's our man," said Jack, after a swift glance over his shoulder. With a jerk of the head, he had Perkins jogging to join them.

"Get a car over here. We've a new guest to entertain."

Perkins nodded, and headed for the nearest telephone.

When Allbright emerged from the shop, pie in hand, he found himself surrounded by friends.

Well, surrounded, anyway.

Looking on the bright side, nobody minded him keeping his pie (in fact, the broad-chested chap with the youthful face gave every sign of being downright jealous); although he did get a black look from the older fellow in the front seat when he wiped his hands on the car seat as they arrived at City South.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

When they got to City South, Jack spoke up.

"Straight to the interview room, please, Collins."

The sergeant grasped the subtext straight away - this canny operator was not to be allowed to speak to his partner in crime by being put in the same cell.

At first, though, it seemed that Allbright wouldn't speak at all - even to a quietly-spoken, faintly threatening Detective Chief Inspector.

Sitting back in his chair, Jack regarded the smaller man meditatively. And shrugged. "Oh, well, Collins, no-one can say we didn't try. Book Mr Allbright for the murder of the Reverend Hackle."

"Here, hang on a minute!" Allbright was finally provoked to speak. "You can't do that!"

"Oh, I can," Jack disagreed. "We have you at the locus and we know that the only other person there didn't commit the crime - so that leaves you, Lewis. That's the great thing about detectives - they're allowed to resort to good, plain logic when a key witness refuses to help."

"But he musta done it!" cried Allbright frantically. "He had the weapon!"

"What weapon?" asked Jack.

"The crowbar!"

"Oh yes - the crowbar," said Jack, as though grasping a distant memory. "Remind me, how did he come by it?"

A pause, while Allbright reviewed his options. Then there was a mutter.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

"He bought it, didn't he?"

"But he didn't have any money, Lewis," Jack pointed out, unarguably. "And if he had, he would have bought food. So I ask myself why a hungry man would splash out on a crowbar?"

Silence.

"Did you give him the money, Lewis?"

Allbright paused, then exploded. "Yeah, I gave him the money. I didn't tell him to kill anyone with it, though, that was all his idea!"

Jack decided not to let his key witness in on his main point of ignorance, and stood up.

"Okay, Allbright - much as it pains me, I admit I believe you."

As he made his way to the door, he muttered to Collins. "Separate cells. And post someone to make sure they don't confer."

He was still pondering the problem half an hour later, when there was a minor explosion in his office - or to be more precise, a social call by Mrs and Miss Robinson.

In such circumstances, Elizabeth was normally permitted prime position on the corner of Daddy's desk. This time, she decided instead that he was looking sad, so she set herself to cheer him up, throwing herself into his arms with verve, enthusiasm and scant regard for the equipment that had brought her into being.

Jack went pale, choked slightly and rearranged her so that she was less angular in the places about which he felt most sensitive.

Phryne snickered. He scowled, for her benefit alone.

"Miss Fisher, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked in tones which suggested that if Elizabeth hadn't been present, he would have stuck his tongue out rather rudely.

Before Miss Fisher had the chance to respond, Elizabeth interrupted.

"I'm getting a new dress, Daddy!"

He smiled down at her. "That's nice, poppet." He looked up at Phryne. "But I'm assuming that wasn't why you came here – Collins is handy for many things, but sewing buttons is about as far as his expertise as seamstress goes."

"It sort of is," she replied nonetheless. "Your daughter is going to be having her first outing as a flower girl."

"Oh?" he said, interested. "Not …?"

"Indeed," she said smugly. "Mitton was simply no match for my persuasive abilities, once he knew that he had nothing to hide."

(It later transpired that Mitton's capitulation had had more to do with Tobias Butler's persuasive abilities than Phryne's, but no-one was going to let on and spoil her fun).

"Is Prudence happy?" he asked, as Elizabeth rolled and unrolled his tie. The happiness should have been a given, but Mrs Stanley had always been unpredictable.

"If you can imagine calmly ecstatic, that's Aunt P just now," Phryne affirmed. "It will be a quiet affair, just immediate family – after all, it's not the first time for either of them – but Elizabeth was eager to help." She grinned. "We've yet to have the discussion about the role that Nutmeg plays in proceedings. Your daughter thinks he's vital, but I'm not sure."

"He _is_ , Mumma!" she exclaimed firmly. "He wants to be a flower girl too."

"Nutmeg?" asked Jack, confused.

"The pony."

"Ah." Jack wisely left that matter for others to decide. Brooding, he buried his nose in Elizabeth's fragrant bob.

"You don't disapprove?" Phryne asked carefully.

"What? Of the wedding? Absolutely not. He's an excellent chap, and your aunt deserves to be happy. No, it's my murder case."

"What's the problem?"

He frowned. "Neither of my suspects appears to have done it. One said he did, but definitely didn't; and the other claims he didn't, and is probably telling the truth, for once, because he thinks the other one did it."

Phryne sat in the chair opposite his desk. "Can I help?"

He shrugged. "I'd love you to, but I don't know how you can. I feel I'll have to start all over again. Go back to the scene. See if there were any other witnesses …"

She stood up. "Come on, then."

He looked up at her, then down at the bundle in his lap, which was trying the effect of his tie as a hairband, with fetching results.

"What about …? I can't exactly ask Collins to babysit."

"Oh, let her come too. She knows not to touch things if it's your work."

This was true. For all Elizabeth was a tactile young creature, she would happily clasp her hands behind her back if there was something exciting to look at but not touch.

He half smiled. It was bad enough keeping Miss Fisher's nose out of his cases. Keeping Elizabeth's out as well was going to be ten times worse.

"You will, collectively, drive me to distraction," he remarked; but as he was already rising to his feet, hoisting his daughter to his hip, his acquiescence was a given.

"I do hope so, darling. I've been trying to for years, after all," she flung cheerfully over her shoulder, as she sashayed out of the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

The air in the house already smelled stale, even after so short a time. Jack let them in with a key, and set Elizabeth down.

"This is a Don't-Touch place, poppet," he adjured her, and she nodded solemnly, hands clasped firmly behind her back.

Phryne was already moving into the parlour. "Is this where it happened?" Jack confirmed that it was, and she followed up, "Where …?" _was the body found_ she didn't want to ask in front of the tot.

He simply indicated the hearthrug, beside the occasional table which was still lying on its side.

She crouched for a moment, but the rug was innocent of stains. Straightening, she surveyed the room.

"They were burglars," he reminded her. "Taken by surprise." He started to circle the room, checking and re-checking the shelves, and the drawers of the cabinet, all of which had already been gone over by Collins and his team. Could a third person have been secreted somewhere in the room? He looked around, and dismissed the idea.

Elizabeth, meantime, had gone to join her mother on the hearthrug, and was squatting down, elbows on knees, fists supporting her face.

"The fire's dirty, isn't it, Mumma?" she remarked.

Phryne looked up at her and gave her a half-absent smile. "It is, poppet. Don't go climbing in among the ashes and get that dress in a mess, will you?"

She giggled, but shook her head. "No, I mean there."

She pointed,

Jack and Phryne both followed her finger to the edge of the hearth stone that the tot was obediently not touching.

The stone was marble, with sworls of red against a background of dark grey. That therefore meant that the dirt to which Elizabeth referred was not immediately visible.

However, it definitely gave a sympathetic background to the red marks that Elizabeth had noted. These were distributed liberally around the sharp corner of the hearth.

"Jack?" said Phryne.

"Phryne?" said Jack.

"Did your crowbar chap move the body?"

Short silence.

"I didn't think to ask. I'll go and do so now, though. Would you agree?"

"Do you mean, is it possible his blow knocked the vicar down, and the vicar then banged his head sufficiently hard on the hearth to kill him, and Crowbar Man turned him over to find him dead?"

"Yes, I think I do mean that."

"Then yes, I agree."

A small voice entered the subsequent silence.

"I agree too, Daddy."


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The bride wasn't half as radiant as the flower girl.

But then, all the bride got was a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with a silver beard and a warm gaze to turn upon her, as they exchanged their vows.

The flower girl, on the other hand, had been delivered to the church on a specially-groomed flower pony, which was – even as the vows were being spoken – contentedly munching on the garlands with which he had been swathed.

There was a roar of laughter from those present when Elizabeth helpfully stepped into the breach at one point; overcome with emotion, Prudence found herself unable to articulate the necessary consent.

"She does," whispered the flower girl conspiratorially to the vicar, who bit his lip and nodded sagely.

The little party then decamped to Aunt Prudence's house, where Mr Butler surpassed himself with the wedding breakfast and the toasts lasted long into the afternoon. A wilting toddler allowed herself to be borne away to bed by her nanny in her dear Mr Johnson's taxi cab, while her parents strolled on the lawn in the sultry evening, leaving the newlyweds to their joy and mild disbelief at the turn their fortunes had taken.

They came to a halt under the huge oak, and he took the moment's peace to bestow a gentle and private blessing upon his beloved. When he lifted his lips from hers, he studied her face for a moment.

"Do you ever wish you'd had something like today?"

She didn't ask what he meant. There may only have been the smallest of ceremonies, and the most select of congregations, but it had still been more elaborate than their own nuptials.

She gazed in thought at the knot of his tie for a few moments, and then smiled up at him.

"Heavens, no." Pushing him back so that he leaned against the tree trunk, she nestled into his arms, and her voice, when it came, was partly muted by the fabric of his lapel on which her cheek rested.

"I don't think you'd ever have got me to the altar except in the way you did. You married me to keep me out of prison." She paused and chortled. "What could possibly be more fitting?"

Pulling back a little, she looked up into his eyes, which were searching hers. He would, he feared, never stop seeking reassurance on this; and he was happy to have her reaffirm her confidence in the promises they'd made.

"Come on, Jack. Can you see me doing the whole hearts and flowers routine, in order to shackle myself to the same man for the rest of my life? That's not me." She tucked her head under his chin again. "No, I married you for the adventure. And for fun. And the rewards are proving … quite surprising."

Then she looked up at him again, and narrowed her eyes.

"I don't know that I've ever really asked, though – not properly. What's in it for you?"

He looked down at her, and rejoiced that she felt the need to ask.

"I'm afraid that the answer to that isn't something I can exactly provide in your Aunt Prudence's garden," he confessed quietly. "Might you be ready to go home? I can give you a more complete answer there."

She grinned up at him. "Will it be a lantern lecture, Jack?"

He grinned back. "Oh, definitely. But with one important distinction."

"Oh?"

"I'll be putting out the lantern to deliver it."


End file.
